


Making Conversation

by Littlefeather



Series: Conversations from the Roadtrip from Hell [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones Crossover, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Double Entendre, F/M, Fluff and Humor, sansan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 12:58:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1649465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Littlefeather/pseuds/Littlefeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crack A/U scenario prompted by A Season of Poison: while on the roadtrip from hell, Arya tries to make conversation with the Hound by sharing personal details of family life with Sansa, oblivious to the effect it has on him. Hints of sansan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making Conversation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ASeasonOfPoison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASeasonOfPoison/gifts).



Riding day and night sandwiched between the neck of the courser and the wall that was the Hound’s chest proved awkward for Arya. They spent their days in silence, picking through the ruins that once made up the Riverlands. The war had reduced the sparse pastoral communities to little more than smoldering ash; most of the residents had long abandoned their homes and farms in search of safer areas. Every now and then they would come across a burned out farm, but rarely did they see people-at least, people that were still alive.

As time passed, Arya temporarily abandoned her hopes of escaping the Hound. Sullen and surly, he rarely spoke. When he did, it was usually to warn her not to run away or to complain that she talked too much, which wasn’t fair, for after the Red Wedding, Arya had no intention of running away from her only source of protection and she spoke very little. It seemed she would be with him for a while yet, and so she tried to make the best of her situation, helping to water and feed Stranger and set up camp in the evening.

He had told her that a man’s got to have a code, and indeed, it seemed he did, though murdering little boys didn’t seem to faze him. He killed Micah, and that alone kept the Hound on her list, but now he was taking her to her aunt, or so he claimed the night before. It didn’t matter to her if it was for coin or not; just the hope of being reunited with what little family she had left warmed her heart.

At first the thought left Arya feeling empty. It was her mother she wanted, not her mother’s sister. She didn’t know her mother’s sister any more than she knew her great uncle Blackfish. Soon she would be free of him, though, and she would have a warm bed and proper food and clothes, too. The Hound had taken care of her, in his own way: he fed her, kept her safe. He helped her get Needle back. He claimed he saved Sansa, which at first she didn’t believe, but since had come to realize he was telling the truth. Over time her hatred for the Hound reformed into a strong dislike and so she put her plotting to kill him on hold.

Nevertheless, Arya took comfort in knowing that she wouldn’t have to put up with the Hound’s stench, his disgusting eating habits and lack of basic hygiene much longer. Still, she wished that as long as they were stuck with each other, they could at least talk a bit.  Arya desperately missed her family-even Sansa-and the lively conversations around the table at Winterfell that filled her childhood. In more recent times her evenings were occupied with the funny stories Gendry and Hot Pie would tell her; she missed them too. The Hound was all she had left, so Arya determined she would make the best of whatever time they had together.

She hadn’t made any bones about wanting to kill him, so it wasn’t surprising the Hound was barely civil to her. One night as he watered Stranger, Arya decided she would break the ice as she mended her breeches. “Where will you go after you ransom me?” Just then the thread broke. Frustrated, she cursed the needle and thread.

“Away,” Sandor spat on the ground. “That’s all you need to know.”

Smirking, Arya shrugged, which seemed to anger the Hound. “You’re not worth spit to me now anyway. I should have let you run into that bloody castle.”

“You should have.” Arya agreed, thinking of her mother and Robb.

He eyed her warily a moment. “You’d be dead if I had. You ought to thank me. You ought to sing me a pretty little song, the way your sister did.”

“Did you hit her with an axe too?” The words slipped off Arya’s tongue. She was too empty to talk, and the Hound was too angry. She could feel the fury rolling off him. Arya could see it on his face, too, the way his mouth would tighten and twist, and in the looks he gave her.

Why did she even try to talk to him? She must be mad to think she could make conversation with a dog. All of their interactions either began or ended in sarcasm until Arya feared all of her lady mother’s training had been lost to her. Still, she was determined to make civilized conversation before she forgot how to do it, for the sake of her aunt and uncle, and in order to not shame her mother. Unfortunately the Hound was the only person she had on which to practice. The only person he mentioned aside from Gregor was Sansa, and so Arya decided to try a different approach.

“What sort of song did Sansa sing for you?”

His head snapped up to her. After a few moments, he said, “Some religious shit about the Mother.” The Hound raised his eyes toward the night sky. “Not the song I wanted.” He chuckled as though he had told a joke, his demeanor confusing Arya. Nodding to her needlework, he added, “You’re making a mess of that.”

“I know. Sansa’s the one good with needles-she has very long graceful fingers. Hers are soft, too; she never pricks them.”

Turning sharply, the Hound stared at her. Arya went on. “I’m surprised she didn’t sing one about knights and fair maidens. Florian and Jonquil was her favorite.”

The Hound snorted contemptuously. “Aye she meant to give me that one. Don’t know why she didn’t.” He made sort of a coughing noise, almost like a sob. _Is he crying?_ She wondered silently. After a while, the Hound cleared his throat. “A fool and his cunt says I, when she offered.” He bit his lip. “Mayhap that’s why she didn’t.” Turning away, he took a long pull off his flask.

“Sansa used to sing all the time, loud enough for the whole castle to hear,” Arya sighed, while bitter tears blinded her vision. “Especially when she bathed. Is that why you call her little bird? ‘Cause she sings when she bathes?”

Coughing and sputtering, the Hound wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “No, bloody hells.” Arya regarded him curiously.

“Then why?”

“Never you mind.” After a moment he quirked his eyebrow at her. “What else?”

“Well, she fluttered around like a bird in the bath, I can tell you that. Do you know she could get through five songs before she finished?" Arya shook her head. “She always was one to hog the wash basin, unlike  _you_.”

“Never mind that. Go on.” He rasped low, his voice sounding even rougher than usual. “What took her so long?” His voice took on a disinterested tone.

Arya almost stopped her recollection.  _He seems to like hearing about Sansa, though,_ Arya smiled to herself.  _At least we have her in common, her and our hatred for the Lannisters._  Encouraged, she went on. “Well she had this lemon soap she never would share that made lots of suds.”

“Lemon, aye, I remember she smelled of them.” He agreed hoarsely while adjusting his belt.

“She loves lemoncakes, too. She’d always lick all the frosting off the tops first and then cram the whole thing in her mouth.”

The Hound groaned loudly, trying to disguise it with a cough.

"Disgusting, I know! Anyway, she was real methodical about how she bathed. She even washed her parts in a particular order, you know." Arya shook her head again.

"And what would that be?" He swallowed hard.

"The order?" Arya thought carefully. "Well, she’d start lathering up at her feet, then up her legs then over her butt and hips, then up to her chest. She has a big chest, you know, too big to shoot a bow and arrow; she needed to be bound all the time.”

Wide-eyed, the Hound licked his lips and leaned in closer, momentarily taking Arya by surprise.  _We just ate; he can’t be hungry._  “Did she now?”

“Yep; she’d hang on to the bedpost in only her pink corset and smallclothes while Septa Mordane tightened her lacings. All her smallclothes were pink, yuck, and you could see through them. So gross and not near warm enough, even inside Winterfell. Every now and then she’d break out of the bindings during the day.” Arya continued seriously, though the Hound choked down his laughter. “The boys would tease her and Mother was forever letting out her bodice. I sometimes wonder if that’s why she didn’t like playing.  I hope I don’t take after her shape…I need to be able to do stuff.”

When she glanced up, she saw the Hound gaping at her. It never occurred to Arya that he would be interested in such mundane details of their family life, but there he sat, clearly captivated by her story. "Almost a woman." He said absently.

Happily, Arya went on, “Anyway it took forever to lather and rinse her hair, too. I’d help her. She’d have to bend way back like this,” Arya demonstrated by arching her back deeply. “She’d mend the holes and help me get out the stains in my dresses so Mother wouldn’t be angry with me as payment for my help. She was always a lady.”

The Hound nodded and ran his tongue over his lips. “A proper lady.”

"The water would be cold when she was done. By the time she got out of the tub, her toes and fingers would be all wrinkled. She’s have goose bumps all over her, too.” Arya snorted out a laugh. “I’d have to put a fur on her and rub her skin so she’d warm up. She liked me doing it, I think.  She used to do the same for me when I fell in the snow. ” She smiled, thinking of her sister. "Then she’d rub lemon oil all over her body, and sometimes she’d let me use a little, too."

The Hound appeared in a daze as he regarded her.  _Maybe he’s bored; but he asked for details, so he must be interested._  “So anyway, she’d rub it all over her body and hair and then jump under the furs as naked as her nameday, no matter how cold a night it was. I just don’t get her.”

The Hound swallowed hard. “Hmph.That so? Naked as her nameday, you say?”

“Yep; crazy, isn’t it?”

He only coughed in response.

“Maybe all that red hair kept her warm. Jon said she was kissed by fire. It was clear to her waist. Is it still?”

“Hmm? What?” The Hound suddenly jerked forward, adjusting himself in his seat. Stranger nickered softly.

“What’s the matter?” Arya frowned. “Got cotton in your ears?”

Confused, he stared at her blankly. “Is Sansa’s hair still to her waist?” Arya demanded again.

“Aye, last I saw her.” His voice sounded even harsher than usual. “Soft, too. Not like yours.” The Hound took another long drink and shifted in his seat once more.

Ignoring him, she smirked to herself. “Well, I figured she wouldn’t have to cut it in the capital.”

“No,” the Hound agreed. “She still has the look of a proper lady. Not like you.”

Undeterred by his insult, Arya went on. “You said that already.“ She rolled her eyes at him. “Say what you want but I’m so glad mine is brown and short like Jon’s. Sansa could never hide with her hair that color. It grows red  _everywhere_ , you know, not just on her head but even- “

Grunting, the Hound stood abruptly and walked away from camp. She could hear him fumbling in the darkness and cursing to himself.

“-even her eyebrows are red.” Arya shouted into the brush. “She’s got freckles, too, in the oddest places.”

“Oh, aye? Freckles?” She heard the Hound roughly repeat from the darkness.

“Yes, on her shoulders, on the inside of her thighs and on her low back, too, right above the dimples on either side of her-“

The Hound groaned loudly. “Enough.”

The woods were silent, save for the Hound cursing to himself.  _Well I guess story time is over._  His behavior was odd, but then everything about the Hound was strange. “What’s the matter? Dinner not sitting well?”

“Go to sleep, wolf bitch, and leave me be,” came the Hound’s rasp out of the darkness. “I need privacy, understand?”

 Of course she knew what he meant; she wasn’t stupid. They had travelled long enough together for Arya to understand when he needed to make water.

 _The Hound is acting odder than ever. What was he about?_  Squinting, she could see him taking a rag from his saddlebag.  “I’m off to the woods. Stay were you are else I’ll hog tie you.”

 _Of course I’ll be here,_  Arya fumed.  _Where would I go?_  Shaking her head, Arya called back, “There’s no water that way. Go uphill of us.”

When he didn’t answer, Arya shouted, “Take a wash while you’re gone, will you? I’m sick of your stench.”

“Bugger that. Bugger you.”

And with that the conversation was over. It was nice remembering, and it felt good talking about her family and so Arya decided she would try to talk to him about them a little bit each night.

The next morning, the Hound was up before sunrise, packed and ready to go. “We make for the Eyrie,” he rasped, kicking her lightly on the foot to rouse her. “For your aunt. I heard the little bird escaped the Red Keep. Might be she’s there.”


End file.
